“Aye, it would seem He has abandoned us.” Richard rose and, letting go of her hand, took a few paces, and turned. “I cannot fathom why, but we have no choice but to accept that Henry’s death was His will.”
“Then He is a cruel God,” she whispered. “Henry was an innocent child. I fear it is you and I that He is punishing.”
“Why should He punish us, Cecily? We have done nothing wrong.”
“The Bible says our bodies are the temples of the Holy Spirit, who lives in us all. I believe that we have taken too much pleasure in each other and so we are punished.”
Richard was astonished by this reasoning, and knew at once that it was her irrational, grief-stricken mind speaking. “We have done nothing immoral, my dearest love. You are mistaken. The teachings of the church also tell us that a husband should not deprive his wife of intimacy, which is her right as a married woman, nor should the wife deprive her husband. We have obeyed those teachings throughout our life together.”
“Then why punish us?” Cecily argued. “Nay, Richard, I have lost faith in Him.”
Richard came back immediately to sit with her. “Never say so, Cecily. We must always trust in God, no matter what the cost. ’Tis our faith that upholds us daily.”
The piteous cries of La Pucelle echoed in Cecily’s head. “Jesu, Jesu, have pity,” Jeanne had begged, but God had not heard her, even though she died for her faith. What kind of God was He, Cecily asked herself angrily, her heart hardening toward Him in her grief.
“I pray you, let me see your dear face, my love,” Richard was saying. Cecily let him remove her veil. She was touched to see the compassion in his eyes. “Ah, Cis, will you forgive me?” he begged, his thumb tracing one of the dark circles under her eyes. “Tell me you forgive me, for I cannot endure this disharmony.”
She looked at him soberly. “Aye, Richard, I must forgive you or I fear our life together will be changed forever. It will take some time to recover from our loss, but perhaps we can share our grief in this peaceful place.”
Richard nodded. “We will take the time, Cis.” He took her face and kissed her gently. “And now, if you can bear it, I would hear how Henry left us.”
THE NEXT NIGHT Richard came to Cecily’s chamber after Rowena had tended to her mistress and left the room. He and Cecily had spent the best part of the day in prayer, but Richard was not to know how little Cecily trusted in God now. Since losing Henry, she prayed exclusively to the Virgin; surely Mary would understand how it felt to lose a son, she reasoned. After walking in the priory’s untidy herb garden, she and Richard had shared quiet conversation at supper together, and Richard thought Cecily would be as ready for them to make love as he was. He was not prepared for her reaction as he pulled her gently toward the bed and tried to untie her flimsy chemise.
“I cannot, my lord!” she cried, backing up to a chair. “How can we ever couple again when I feel this way? Thrice you have got me with child. I give birth while you are gone, and then God takes the child from us. Answer me this: How shall I ever again enjoy making love with you?” Her chin was trembling and her knuckles white as she gripped the arms of the chair. “I do not want to conceive another child and have him taken from me—ever again!”
Richard listened aghast and sank to his knees. “Sweet Mother of God, Cecily, what can I say to console you?” Almost as quickly he got up, his patience tried. “What about little Anne? God has not taken her from us. She is alive, clever, loving, and healthy, if you would take the time to notice,” he snapped and, snatching up his gown, he left the room.
“Aye, but He will take her. You will see, my lord, He will,” muttered Cecily, staring with venom at the crucifix on the opposite wall.
THE NEXT DAY Richard sought out Constance in the priory infirmary, where she was grinding up some poppy seeds. She told Richard that she was worried when she had tiptoed past the door during the night and heard Cecily crying. It had been some time after Richard left and so, knocking first, Constance had let herself in and found Cecily wide awake, still seated on the chair with her knees under her chin.
“What can I do, doctor? Is she ill?” Richard asked. “I fear for her mind. She has sunk so low into melancholy.”
Constance was taken aback by the duke’s familiarity with her, but his urgency and concern touched her. She had had few dealings with him, living as she did in the duchess’s apartments. She proceeded carefully. “I cannot tell if she is simply grieving and her humor will pass, or if she is truly ill,” she told him. “I have studied the diseases of women from Trotula of Salerno’s treatise. It is known some women are afflicted with melancholy following birth, but it most often passes with time, my lord. But although I do not believe it will cure her, I will bleed her, if you so desire.”
But Richard was not listening. “What have I done?” he groaned. “I would make amends, but I know not how.”
Constance gave him a sympathetic smile. “Courage, monseigneur. Elle vous adore, vous savez.”
Richard heard her then. “She does? She adores me? Certes, I could not see any semblance of love last night. She looked as though she loathed me.”
Constance continued to mash the gray seeds with the pestle as she told him, “I beg of you to be patient, my lord duke. She will recover. The duchess Cecily is as strong a woman as I have ever known.”
Her unhurried manner seemed to pacify Richard. Giving a quick bow, he acknowledged her good service to his wife and left. Constance watched him go with sympathy and admiration. Sighing, she again envied Cecily’s good fortune in her husband.
15
Normandy, 1441
Richard took Cecily west to Guildford and then south to Portsmouth, and by the time they left the verdant Hampshire forest of Beare and began to climb the last hill, they sensed a buzz of excitement in the air. Before their arrival, many cavalcades and companies of armed men had rolled over the road and along the coast to gather at the south ports. The ships that had been ordered to those ports from all over the kingdom the month before had to be dispersed when the duke had not been ready to leave, but now they were slowly reassembling.
When the York retinue came over Portsdown Hill, Cecily was not surprised to see the fields stretched out below them filled with brightly colored tents, wagons loaded with furnishings and armaments, makeshift pens of horses and oxen, and clusters of hundreds of soldiers. She was astonished, however, to see so many ships in the vast harbor, which looked to her more like a bay. Sunlight was sparkling on its blue-green water. Dover’s access to the English Sea was paltry by comparison, she thought. Beyond the fields, the spire of the Portsmouth church rose from the town on the headland, and as the York party wended its way to the port, Richard pointed out the new round tower that had been built a decade before at the narrow mouth of the harbor to ward off enemy attacks.
“It bristles with cannon, so I have heard,” he said and then grinned. “Why they built it of wood and not stone, I cannot imagine. One spark and it becomes an inferno.”
Cecily learned that they would be joined at Portsmouth by the earls of Eu and Oxford, Sir James Ormond, and Sir Richard Woodville and their trains. Indeed, it seemed to Cecily that the whole town was full to bursting with members of all the noble households. Like Richard, commanders preferred to commandeer an alderman’s or a merchant’s house rather than pitch a tent alongside the masses in the fields. Sir William Oldhall was on hand to greet the duke and duchess in front of the modest town hall, and his first words to Cecily were of regret for the loss of little Henry. Touched, Cecily thanked him graciously. He led the way to a large, handsome, half-timbered house that boasted three stories. He looked pleased with himself when Richard complimented him on the choice of accommodations.
“There must have been competition from my brother-in-law, Bourchier,” Richard remarked, laughing. “Isabel must be disconsolate, do you not think, my dear?” he asked. Cecily nodded absently. She had met Richard’s sister only twice and had not found much in common with her, despite a fami
ly likeness to Richard. But Richard held Henry Bourchier, earl of Eu, in high esteem and had requested his presence on this campaign to France. It appeared she would grow to know Isabel Plantagenet better in the coming year.
Before crossing the merchant owner’s threshold, Richard whispered to his wife, “The gentleman has reaped the benefits of the wine trade, I suspect,” and he indicated the enormous pile of barrels leaning against the side of the house with their telltale stained bungholes. Cecily had to smile when a few moments later she met the said merchant, who bowed and scraped to them as they entered the pleasant hall. Cecily thought his nose might have acted as a beacon on a dark night, and he must be suffering from the gout, she surmised, watching him hobble up the stairs to show them to their accommodations. Cecily extolled the view from the window in her sunny solar to her host, guessing she was looking over the Solent at the distant Isle of Wight.
When Richard saw that she was comfortable, he retired to a room that had been set aside as his headquarters and was relieved to see there was an adequate bed in it. Although aching to make love to Cecily, Richard had kept his promise and refrained from any intimacy for the length of the seven-day journey. He knew he should have left her much sooner on the road to make sure all the troops were mustered, but his concern for her melancholy forced him instead to ride by her side. He was quiet when she wanted it and only engaged her in conversation when she initiated it. He prayed to Monica, the patron saint of wives and mothers, that he might earn Cecily’s forgiveness sooner rather than later, as he could hardly bear the schism he had inadvertently caused. Even Richard’s squire and gentlemen ushers were fooled into believing her grace the duchess was suffering from a female malady that required the duke to sleep in their tent upon the road. Only Constance knew that Cecily had denied her husband her bed for a far more personal reason. Gossip-prone Rowena occupied herself with Anne and her own two children and hardly noticed anything else.
Little by little, Cecily’s heart reopened to Richard, and by the time they reached Portsmouth, she grudgingly admitted to herself that he had demonstrated his contrition and devotion without a hint of reproach or resentment. How I wish I could be as generous, she thought on one occasion during the second day’s ride as she watched him engage Anne in a game of Name This while the child enjoyed her lofty perch before him on his saddle. He is a good father, in truth, better than I am a mother, she admitted ruefully. But then her thoughts rushed back to her nightmare of suffering in the Dorking parish church, and she knew she must be capable of great maternal love.
She had studied Richard from under her wide, veiled straw hat that morning and remembered how much she loved his eyes when he smiled. He was smiling then at something Anne was trying to pronounce. Then he had stroked his daughter’s dark curls, reminding Cecily how gentle his hands could be when he caressed her own hair, her face, her naked . . . Nay, Cecily! Do not think of such things—not yet. Opening her heart was momentary. It began to close again—but this time she did not slam it shut.
THE TWO PROUD women, the taller in blue and the other in green, eyed each other critically once they had made their reverences, and the guests gathered in the pleasant hall of the wine merchant’s house watched with interest. No one else in the room could hold a candle to these beauties: Jacquetta, former duchess of Bedford, and Cecily, duchess of York. Jacquetta was petite and voluptuous, her face heart-shaped with classically symmetrical features, and her hair, fashionably concealed, was said to be lustrous gold. Up close, Cecily could see that Jacquetta’s skin had been marred by a pox when she was a child, but she had cleverly concealed its marks with a powder. True, the duchess of York was a year older and there were vestiges of grief still on her face, but Cecily’s flawless complexion and brilliant blue eyes attracted attention, and her regal height meant that she wore the fashionable high-waisted, heavily draped, and long-trained gown more elegantly. Jacquetta had chosen to wear the Burgundian headdress of two six-inch silver filigree horns on either side of her temples over which was draped pearl-encrusted lace. Had she not been so lovely, she might have resembled a cow, Cecily thought, vowing never to adopt that absurd style.
But when Jacquetta’s husband came to stand next to her, all eyes moved from the Yorks to the perfectly matched Woodvilles. Richard Woodville was, at thirty-five, still a most handsome man with a six-foot frame, broad shoulders, and well-defined legs, which he showed off in parti-color hose beneath the new shorter gown. As pleasant a countenance and neat appearance as the duke of York possessed, he was no match for the elegant Sir Richard.
Cecily, as the superior in rank, spoke first to Jacquetta. “God give you a good day, your grace. I trust your lodging is comfortable.”
Jacquetta smiled, causing Cecily to shiver slightly. Jacquetta’s eyes reminded Cecily of a cat’s—almond-shaped and almost yellow. “Your grace is kind to inquire,” she replied in perfect English but with a slight accent. “Sir Richard and I find it adequate but,”—she took in her surroundings, gesturing constantly with her many-ringed fingers—“not as pleasant as this.” She sighed. “I miss Grafton already.”
Cecily inclined her head, unfamiliar with the Northamptonshire manor owned by the Woodville family. She bristled at the intimation that Jacquetta, who was now after all only the wife of a knight banneret despite her previous title, thought she merited similar quarters to the Yorks’. Some guardian angel made her barb sound innocently sweet. “I pray you have no misgivings about returning to Rouen, madam, with the recent memory of your marriage there with Duke John still fresh.”
Cecily felt Richard’s arm stiffen in surprise, but she smiled innocently, cocked her head, and enjoyed the other woman’s discomfort. Serves her right, Cecily thought. It had been the talk of the court that these two must have begun their affair long before poor John of Bedford was dead. Perhaps Jacquetta had called upon her ancestor Melusine’s skills to cause the duke to decline so she could have her knight, Cecily mused. Then she berated herself: You go too far, Cis.
“Aye, I shall be reminded of his final days, ’tis true, your grace,” Jacquetta was saying, her own smile mirroring Cecily’s. “We plan to have masses said at his tomb as soon as we get to Rouen. Both of us miss him dearly, do we not, Sir Richard?”
Sir Richard Woodville was puzzled by this uncomfortable conversation, and he had the grace to lower his eyes before supporting his wife in her lie. “Ah . . . um . . . why . . . certes, we do, madam,” he replied.
Richard extracted Cecily from the situation by bowing to the couple and making his and Cecily’s excuses to greet others. “Why the venom, Cis?” he murmured as he led them toward Henry Bourchier and Isabel. “What has she done to you that I am unaware of?”
“Forgive me, Richard, in truth I know not. There was something about her, something untrustworthy that made my skin crawl. I confess I should not have spoken thus, and I beg your pardon. Sir Richard is an affable man, and I enjoyed his company on my way to Calais all those years ago, but she . . .”
She did not finish, for the earl of Eu was walking forward to pay his respects, his diminutive wife, in a rose gown delicately embroidered with the Bourchier knot, on his arm. Cecily glanced back at the Woodvilles still standing in the middle of the room and saw Jacquetta glaring at her. Cecily shivered again.
“Brother-in-law, you are a welcome sight,” Henry Bourchier said, grasping Richard’s outstretched arm in greeting, his graying moustache twitching over a mouth ever ready to smile. “And Cecily, you grow more beautiful with age, I swear,” he declared, kissing her hand. “However, I understand condolences are in order, am I right, Isabel?”
Isabel Plantagenet, Countess of Eu, agreed, her gray eyes, so like Richard’s, expressively sad as she detected the ravages of grief on Cecily’s lovely face. She had given her husband five sons already and had recently conceived for the sixth time. “My dear brother and sister, it is beyond understanding how one deals with the death of a child. God has been kind to us and allowed our sons to live. I pray He sen
ds you another son soon.” For the first time in their limited acquaintance Cecily saw not arrogance but shyness in her sister-in-law’s quiet manner and so reached out her hand, gratefully covering Isabel’s. Perhaps she understood why Isabel was not often at court but preferred living quietly at Rettendon.
“Let us hope so, my lady,” Cecily said simply, cheered at the prospect of forming a bond with this woman in the coming months. “Until He does, I shall look forward to introducing our daughter to you and meeting our nephews very soon. Do any of them accompany you to Rouen?”
NONE OF THE children on the voyage to Harfleur was any the worse for a choppy sea. However, several of the adults took to their bunks and hammocks or hung over buckets or the gunwale. Cecily had discovered on her first crossing to Calais that she was one of the fortunate sailors, and so she spent much of her time during this two-day voyage on deck playing hide-and-go-seek or hoodman blind with the children.
From the poop deck, Richard anxiously watched her. Outwardly she was behaving congenially with him, conversing about their fellow passengers’ mal de mer, the weather, their plans on arrival in France, and the newly renovated governor’s lodgings in Bouvreuil Castle. She had even allowed him to kiss her, and more than once he thought he had detected desire, but Richard could not reach her heart, and more than that, he worried that her faith had been seriously compromised by Henry’s loss. However, Richard’s chaplain had assured him that the duchess attended services and had made her confession on several occasions during their brief stay in Portsmouth.
“Many of us who are true believers have our faith tested, my lord,” Father Lessey had told Richard. “Your lady wife has been sorely tried, but she will feel God’s love again, I promise you.”
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